


A Series of Drabbles

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Crack, Drabble Collection, Gen, Parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-03 15:33:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1749698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By request: a compilation of drabbles or mini-stories that I've posted to my Tumblr. Mainly Silmarillion, occasional LotR.<br/>Mainly crack, some angst, lots of parodies of things that I've found amusing.<br/>Will be updates when/if more are written.<br/>For more of what on earth goes on inside my brain, follow me on Tumblr:<br/>markedasinfernal.tumblr.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Untitled

“Daddy!” Idril’s chubby hands reached up to tug at the hem of Turgon’s robes that fell in a pool of cobalt velvet below where he sat at his writing desk. 

“ _Daddy!”_ With all the petulance of a toddler being ignored, she tugged at her father’s robes again, and with an exasperated sigh he replaced his quill in its inkwell. Clearly the matters of court would have to wait. He stooped from where he sat, and lifted her up to place her upon his lap, her tiny bare feet kicking at the air in delight.

“What is it, dear one?” Turgon asked, stroking back the silver-gold strands of hair that stuck to her sweaty cheeks.

“Daddy, I saw something very funny in the corridors, you know!”

“Oh?” Turgon smiled, before setting his jaw in an expression of mock sternness, and with a playful imperiousness enquiring, “And what did you see?”

Idril opened her mouth as if to answer, inhaling in one excited breath, before pausing, her mouth left agape as her brow knitted in sudden worry.

“But…Daddy, I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you. I think it might be a secret.”

“A _secret?_ You did not say that we were dealing with secrets, little one. But if you would tell me, then solemnly I swear to keep your secret, and to never tell another soul. Father’s honour.”

He arched his eyebrow at Idril encouragingly, who squirmed in his lap, biting her lower lip until finally she said:

“Okay Daddy, but promise you won’t be angry with me. I was just coming to find you, when I heard two voices coming from behind a door. They were saying something, and I couldn’t quite hear it, and then suddenly it went quiet, and I went over to the door, and it was open a bit so I looked through the crack and then…”

“And then?”

“Well, it was your friends, Daddy. The funny blonde one who always gives me teacakes and tells me jokes, and his friend, Ec…Ecth, well, I don’t quite know how to pronounce his name, but he plays me songs on his flute sometimes, and he was very kind to me one time when I got lost in Grandfather’s house. Well, they were in the room together, and they…they were…”

Idril squirmed once more, a secretive smile breaking over her face as her cheeks flushed pink.

“They were _kissing!”_ She whispered, before grinning nervously, looking up into her father’s face and desperately trying to gauge his reaction, whether she had said something naughty.

Turgon remained silent for a moment, but a wry quirk passed over his lips that he could not quite suppress.

“I…I didn’t mean to be spying, Daddy, and so I ran away, and I came and found you. But Daddy, they were kissing on the lips, like you sometimes kiss Mummy. Why were they doing that?”

Turgon smiled gently, wondering how best to explain it to his daughter. Long had he known about his friends, and long ago he had accepted it, but he would have to have words with them. Really, there were limits, and certain discretions that could be observed, indeed more so now that Idril had declared herself Princess of the Corridors, and was old enough to wander the house unsupervised.

“Well, Idril, you see, when two people love each other very much, in a romantic way, often they show this love by kissing. You have seen your mother and I kissing, have you not? It’s like that. Most often it will happen when a man and a woman fall in love with each other, but sometimes, well, sometimes two men or two women can love each other very much too.”

Idril frowned, knotting her fingers around handfuls of Turgon’s robe as she puzzled.

“So,” she ventured hesitantly, “is it like what you said about Uncle Fingon?”

“And what was it that I said about Uncle Fingon?”

“Well, I heard you talking to Mummy one time and you said that Uncle Fingon loves Uncle Maedhros very much, but that you didn’t like it. But why didn’t you like it, Daddy? I’m…I’m not going to get your friends in trouble am I? Because you don’t like that they were kissing?”

Turgon sighed wearily, before looking pointedly at Idril, who turned her head away.

“You hear far too much for your own good, young lady. And no, Glorfindel and Ecthelion will not get into trouble. And neither will your uncles. I promised that I would not tell, remember?”

Gently Turgon shifted Idril from his lap, setting her back onto the floor, where she stared up at him wide-eyed.

“You will understand these things when you are older, Idril, and you will understand why sometimes these things are difficult to talk about. But maybe someday, you will find somebody of your own who you want to kiss.”

“No, Daddy!” Idril squealed, her nose crinkled in childish disgust, “kissing’s so icky! And it’s for only for grown ups, and it’ll be years before I’m a grown up!”

A soft snort of laughter accompanied her vehement proclamation, as Turgon shooed her out of the door, back to her mother and her tutors in time for her writing lessons.   

“And no peeking around doors this time!” He called after her, watching her scamper mischievously down the corridor until she rounded the corner. He shook his head amusedly to himself, before settling once more at his writing desk, picking up his quill and making a mental note to warn his household of a particularly inquisitive maiden terrorizing the corridors at the moment.

         


	2. The Loneliest Voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I find it hard to believe that in Maglor's self-imposed exile, he didn't try at least once to go home.

The mournful wind whipped about the torn edges of his cloak, its once grand embroidery now faded, muted by years of brine and stinging sand. So hard he tried not to look, not to gaze upon the endless rolling waves stretching out to the dim horizon. So hard he tried to block them out, their crash upon the shore, the hiss of the foam amongst the rocks; his only percussion for uncounted years. His harp strings snapped long ago, the fibres worn thin and strained with use, until one by one they were rent under his fingertips, and he was left with nothing, a mute frame and a voice without joy. His brothers, his father lay across the restless seas, lost in shadowy halls and bitter memory; but his mother remained, and his cousins perhaps walked free. The longing gnawed at him, to see them again, to hold them, to _be held_ in their arms once more, to feel something real, something to dispel the phantoms that wept each night in his dreams.

He knew it was pathetic but he could not endure it; this self-imposed exile wrought in shame and anger and grief all those centuries ago. But those seething emotions had long since run their course, and in their void was nothing but emptiness. So he swallowed what pitiful pride was left to him, and wearily he left his haunted beaches, venturing into the desolate woodlands that clustered about the cliff-tops. And some small part of him knew that it was hopeless, but he knew that he had to try anyway, because perhaps he would succeed, just perhaps he had been forgiven; and timber by rough-hewn timber he built himself a vessel.

Crude it was, of splintered planks and salvaged scraps of cloth for a sail, and he winced as the fish-bone needle punched through the canvas, his blistered hands ripping open anew in weals of raw flesh. His own jewel, his very birthright had betrayed him; it had judged him and found him unworthy and that pain had never faded. It was burned into his hands, scarred into his heart.

At last he set sail, without ceremony or farewell, scudding his little skip over the iron waves and still he felt nothing, just a vague absence curling through his chest. The light was long bleached from his eyes, and yet dully they shone as he tacked over the waters, skirting the nightmare-bay. Charred hulls of ships lay mangled beneath the waves; burn-rotted masts creaked in their death-throes amid swan figureheads with blackened eyes, staring into waters that would never be clean of the taste of ashes.

Days blurred into trackless time amid the jostle of pitiless waves, until from afar he spotted the first shimmers of land ahead of his prow. With a wistful smile he tacked starboard, and something twisted in his stomach as he looked on, yearning and reluctance twined all slippery and weird within him. But slowly he realized that something was wrong, ever the coastline lingered before him, never wavering, never nearing, frozen in a ripple of pallid mauve. And keenly he listened, the monotonous thud of the waves upon his gunwale all too rhythmic, the whispers of breeze in repetitive little striae tugged at sails that bore him nowhere; a little boat sailing motionless, stuck in a time and space made viscous, made un-real.

With sick inevitability it dawned on him; and the skies imploded in languid brutality, the ruined beats of his heart stretched on in their agony as he looked upon shores that with such cruel poignancy he knew he would never reach. After all that he had done, every lament sung to the merciless sea, after all that he had suffered still he was cursed, still their leaguer barred him, branded him kin-slayer, oath-breaker, murderer. For one shattering moment he closed his eyes, his knuckles glaring white as he gripped the rudder of his boat, the breath clotting in his lungs. In one throbbing blow millennia of toil and bitterness came crashing down, and silver and silent the tears welled behind his eyes. They dripped down his cheeks as what forlorn hope he held withered inside of him, it crumbled on his lips as wordlessly, with such exquisite simplicity he turned his little skip about, every movement laboured in its sorrow; he was just so tired, weary and homesick and still the door remained shut.

The boat’s prow pointed back in lament to the east as a fresh slab of grief slid down his throat, only to dissolve into the sheer, aching nothingness that bloomed in the base of his stomach. It bore him back to his lonely doom, on the shores of Beleriand he would linger on, accursed, exiled; a numb little ghost amid the residue of an empire until the world was changed; until the devouring waves would roll over the land and finally, finally, he might be allowed to end.


	3. Angband's Canteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tongue-in-cheek parody of Eddie Izzard's 'Death Star Canteen' sketch.

The morning’s machinations were going poorly. Sauron was nagging at him to oversee the gate repairs, and a seemingly endless stream of orcs kept pouring in with the latest figure reports: damages here, this battalion destroyed there, Elven princes running amok and the like. Finally Melkor could stand no more, and striding from the council room resolved to visit the canteen, and grab some well deserved lunch.

Striding through the doors to the canteen, a series of muttered “m’lord”s greeted his entrance, his orcs largely occupied with their faces buried in their platters. He walked over to the counter, nodding to the bored-looking orc that stared dully at him from the opposite side. A wooden ladle was held in its curved claws, hovering above a series of lidded cauldrons that rested upon the countertop.

Melkor squinted at the menu scrawled onto the far wall for a moment, before turning to the orc and grandly declaring: “I shall have the penne all’arrabiata.”

“You’ll need a tray,” the orc mumbled.

A moment of indignant surprise crackled through the air, and rather incredulously Melkor enquired: “Do you know who I am?”

“Do you know who _I_ am?” the orc countered sardonically.

“This is not a game of who the fuck are you!” Melkor snapped, before his voice took on a smoother, more preening tone. “For I am Melkor, Lord Melkor. I can kill you with a single thought!”

“Well, you’ll still need a tray.”

“No, I will not need a tray! I do not need a tray to kill you! I can kill you without a tray, with the powers of fire and ice and turmoil that are strong within me!”

At that Melkor paused, and a cunning look crept into his eyes. “Although I could kill you with a tray _if_ I so wished. For I would hack at your neck with the thin bit until the blood flowed across the canteen floor!” 

“No,” the orc replied disinterestedly, “no, the food is hot. You’ll need a tray to put the food on.”

“Oh!” said Melkor, feeling the faintest tinge of embarrassment flash through him. “Oh, I see the food is hot. Oh, I’m sorry, I did not realize. Ha ha…a tray for the…yes. I thought you were challenging me to a fight to the death…”

“ _A fight to the death?_ ” the orc sneered. “This is a canteen. I work here…”

“Yes, but I am Melkor.”

The orc stared at him blankly.

“I am…Melkor? Everyone challenges me to a fight to the death.” 

Crickets. The orc scratched its rump.

“Melkor? Lord Melkor? The Black Foe? The Morgoth? Sir Morgoth? Sir Lord Morgoth Bauglir?  Lord Melkor of Utumno? Lord of the Darkness? Sir Baron von-Moringotto? Angband? I run Angband!”

“What’s Angband?”

Melkor stared at the orc incredulously, before angrily replying: “This is Angband! You’re in Angband! This is the Hell of Iron! I run this Hell!” 

“This is Hell?”

“Yes this is fucking Hell! I run it! I’m your boss!”

“Are you Mister Boldog?”

“No!” Melkor protested, utterly perturbed and not the least bit exasperated. “I’m… who is Mister Boldog?”

“He’s Head of Catering.”

“Look, I’m not Head of Catering!” Melkor barked. “ _I_ am Melkor! I can kill catering with a thought!”

“What?”

“I can kill you all! I can kill Catering, I can kill me with a single thought! I just…fine, fuck it, I’ll get a tray.”

With peevish brusqueness, Melkor stepped over to the wonky pile of wooden trays balanced rather precariously on the edge of the counter. He grabbed the first from atop the pile, eyeing it suspiciously. 

“This one is wet,” he proclaimed, dropping it to the floor. “And this one is wet, this one is wet, this one is wet,” he repeated, flinging each tray to the floor in an increasingly dramatic gesture. “This one is wet. This one is wet. Did you dry these in fucking Hithlum? Why in the power of Angband do we not have a tray that is fucking dry?! I do not…” 

Yet as Melkor was speaking another orc slipped in front of him, grabbing a tray from atop the pile and standing before the counter. Melkor made some incoherent noise caught somewhere between rage and protest, before asserting: “No, no no! I was here first!”

“You have to form a queue if you want food,” the offending orc snarled, not even bothering to turn and look at him. It tilted its chin at the server. “Can I have, uhh…oh the penne all’arrabiata. That’d be nice.”

At such blatant disrespect Melkor was incensed, and roughly he gripped the orc by his jerkin, spinning him around.

“No, no no,” he growled darkly, “ _Do you know who I am_?”

“That’s Morkor Bauglir, that is!” the serving orc piped up, tapping its ladle excitedly against the countertop.

“I am not _Morkor_ Bauglir,” Melkor hissed, “I am _Morgoth_ Bauglir!”

“What?” the offending orc replied thickly, the tray held clumsily in its meaty paws, “Morkor Bauglir who runs Angband?”

“No, Morkor…no, no _I_ run Angband!”

“You’re Morkor Bauglir?”

“No! No! I’m _Morgoth_ Bauglir!”

“Are you his brother? Could you get his autograph?”

“No! What? I can’t get his…no, I’m not Morkor…” Melkor trailed off, seething in impotent rage as the orcs stared up at him. “…oh look, look, all right, I’m Morkor Bauglir! _I’m Morkor Bauglir_!”

“Can I have your autograph?”

“No!” Melkor cried, “fuck off! Or I’ll kill you with a tray!” 

He turned quickly to the server, a hastily snatched tray brandished in his hand. 

“Give me penne all’arrabiata or you shall die! And you, and everyone in this canteen! Death by tray it shall be!” 

The orc sighed, flicking the lid off of a steaming vat of pasta. It slopped some pasta into a wooden bowl, before pausing, ignoring the tray that was so tetchily proffered.    

“Do you want peas with that?”

* * *

 

Midway through tallying the accounts upon his writing desk far upstairs, Sauron paused. Some sort of unearthly shriek seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the room. He frowned as the sound died away, straining his ears for any further signs of distress. Faintly he thought he heard a sort of twanging noise, and what might have been screams, but through the thick stone sounds were often hard to distinguish.

_Strange_ , he thought, _it almost sounded like someone was being viciously murdered with a tray._  

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a certain friend, with whom watching Frozen became suddenly, infinitely more painful.

Footsteps echoed coldly through the barren chamber, and at its center Celebrimbor hauled himself upright. His hands were clasped behind his back in biting steel manacles as blearily he looked up at his captor. Blood glistened over his lips, a constellation of little bruises blossomed across his jaw, trailed down his neck where his captor’s fingers had stung. 

"A-Annatar?” he whimpered, staring up at his captor, and fear swam in his eyes. Annatar crouched down in front of him, a haughty smile carved across his features, and he reached up, stroking over the tender, broken skin of Celebrimbor’s face.  

“Annatar, why?” Celebrimbor plead, flinching away from his touch. “W-Why are you doing this? P-please, stop, it hurts…”

“You disappoint me, little one,” Annatar purred, cocking his head in an entirely animal motion, and something fey burned in his eyes. His fingers tightened around Celebrimbor’s neck, digging into the purpling bruises there and abruptly Annatar yanked him forward, his shoulders jarring horribly as his bound hands scrabbled for balance.

“Please, s-stop…” he gasped, the words sticking in his throat as Annatar tightened his grip once more, sending erratic flashes of light sparkling across his vision. He choked, writhing in Annatar’s grasp, the words falling taught and ruined over his lips, “I thought…I thought you…”

And how Annatar sneered as the words shivered in the air, as they dashed against the floor. He pressed himself forward, his lips scant millimeters from Celebrimbor’s, ghosting over his skin as if to kiss him, to comfort him as he had done so many times before, all those nights spent twined in each other’s arms.  

"Oh, Tyelpe,” he breathed, the words hissing through his teeth with such exquisite betrayal, such cruel pity.

“Oh Tyelpe, _if_ _only_ there was someone out there who loved you.” 

Annatar’s fingers slammed into the sides of Celebrimbor’s throat with paralyzing force, cutting off his protest in one crushing movement. A thin stiletto blade flickered into Annatar’s free hand, and an instant later the silent halls of the Mírdain were ruptured with the sound of screaming.


	5. Side By Side With A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A voyage beyond the edges of the world.

On a beach of white sands, under the first glimmers of a sunrise pale on the far horizon, a boat nudges to shore. A simple, small craft of oaken beams, its sides fleck with foam as the gentle waves lap at its hull, its sail rippling softly in the silken breeze. A masthead carved in the likeness of a gull stares boldly ahead, curved wood gleaming in the radiant light.

Two figures sit in the little vessel, one fair and ever young; one old and wizened, but possessed of a graven majesty unmatched but for the forgotten days of the world. With sad smiles they furl the canvas sail, securing the ropes with tender knots, stowing the oars and readying their few belongings, hands lingering across their faithful little boat, last tie to a world left far behind.

The younger companion vaults ashore, blond hair sparkling in the light, a delicate bow and quiver of arrows sung of finest mahogany slung over his shoulder.  His leather boots splash amidst the frothing breakers, sending scattered mirages of deepest azures, richest emeralds flashing joyous across the waves. Extending a hand, he helps his friend down, much shorter in stature yet fiercest of spirit; a grin cracking childlike across a wrinkled face as his feet touch the sand, the breeze wafting through his braided white beard.

Together they walk up the beach, the wind fluttering around them in breathless whispers, sand shifting in pearlescent grains beneath their feet. They pause a moment, look back over the vast expanse of ocean, the deserted beach, with a nameless sense of longing, the solemn ache of being pawns in a game so much bigger than themselves. Of scars and healing it spoke, of grief and joy, infinity and possibility undimmed before the breaking of the world stretched out before them; two lifetimes encompassed in impossible clarity, yet faded beyond the edges of the shimmering dawn.

The moment passes and they turn, make to continue into the rolling grass meadows before them, but a figure appears, an elf-maiden clad in raiment of white, fluted with iridescent threads of gold and silver. She walks towards them, elegant face impassive, and as she draws near the younger companion steps forward slightly, one hand placed protectively upon the shoulder of his friend, in wary anticipation awaiting her actions, her words.

She meets his gaze, with bare footsteps ethereal and light moves closer; a faint smile played across her lips, and tinkling laughter dances in her eyes. To him she nods slightly in welcome, as kindred spirits sundered long ago, but before his companion she halts, once more aloof, haughty. She looks down upon him with an expression fey; a terrible pause in which time congealed, the world seemed to hold its breath, and nothing stirred but the lapping of the waves upon the shore, and their hearts softly beating.

In sudden motion she kneels, taking his hand in her own slender fingers, delight shining brilliant in her eyes anew. And with a voice that calls of promise and beginnings and peace everlasting, these are the words she speaks: 

“Welcome, Gimli, son of Gloin, to Valinor.”


	6. How Morgoth Bauglir Stole Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A parody of two of the greatest moments of Dr Seuss' 'How The Grinch Stole Christmas'.

Above the supposed ruins of Angband, Melkor reared the threefold peaks of Thangorodrim, and a great reek of dark smoke was ever wreathed about them. And when the vengeful mood should seize him, he would scale their mighty peaks, ascending to the highest point and surveying his land, a great scroll clutched in his blackened hand. Standing atop the pinnacle of his kingdom, Melkor unfurled that great scroll, surveying its list of names and hating them.

“Aikanaro Arafinwion, I… _hate you!”_ he bellowed, the bitter winds carrying that great cry of malice over the dust-plains of the Anfauglith. Scowling down at the scroll, he read off the next name with scarcely less contempt.

“Angarato Arafinwion, I hate _you_!”

Scanning more quickly down the list, those hateful names bloomed before his eyes: _Arafinwë Finwion, Arakano Nolofinwion, Artanis Arafinwiel_ , and his expression grew thunderous. Each elicited its own baleful response: “hate, hate, hate,” he muttered, before stabbing his finger into the scroll some way down its length. 

 _Curufinwë Fëanorion_ , the offending name read, and with a vindictive smirk he growled: “Double hate.”

He perused further down the scroll, near dreading the sight of his blackest enemy, but at the same time willing it to be, revelling in the dark pleasure that those spidery letters brought forth. And there it lay: _Fëanor Finwion_ , and at the sight the eyes of the Moringotto were illumined with a dreadful flame.

He gasped dramatically; the very air of it irked him with its defiance, its sheer abominable _arrogance,_ and at the thought he crumpled up the scroll within his fist. And in a voice that could have felled birds from the sky, at last he uttered: 

“ _Loathe entirely_!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

Melkor sighed wearily as he retreated to his chambers, a goblet of wine shimmering in his hand. The day had been tiresome indeed: malevolent schemes did not write themselves, and Sauron had become increasingly pedantic of late: _how many orcs are we moving where, exactly? And when? And what if the winds should not be in our favour? And what if the Enemy should be alerted to their presence, what was the contingency plan?_ It was almost as if his lieutenant was beginning to doubt his efficacy as Commander, and that was a troubling thought.

Nevertheless, the day had drawn to its eventual close, and all had retired for the evening. At the base of the staircase that led to his inner rooms. Melkor paused, considering the message-box that was posted on a small pinnacle there. It was an old device of Sauron’s: to give the soldiery an opportunity to anonymously make suggestions, or complaints to (or about) the management. Of course, whether or not any such suggestions were _heeded_ was another matter altogether, but Melkor felt there was no harm in at least providing the gesture.

He prised the lid off of the steel box, before peering inside for any letters. And to his marked surprise, found none. 

_Odd_ , he thought. _Better check the outgoing._

He replaced the lid, and then examined the front of the box where a scrap of parchment had long since been fastened. True, it might have been in need of a more diplomatic revision, and the ink was a little faded, but the familiar message glared up at him in block capital letters: 

‘IF YOU INSCRIBE SO MUCH AS ONE RUNE, I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND GUT YOU LIKE A FISH.’

A line after, a more measured script read:

‘If you’d like to speak to me personally, make an appointment via S-.’

All seemed to be aright, and Melkor shrugged, muttering, “Oh, well,” before continuing on up the staircase. Feeling a little deflated for the lack of personal correspondence, he skirted the doors that would lead to his bedchambers, instead taking a narrow staircase that twisted up inside the belly of the mountains, before some minutes later emerging into a small cavern.

A plush armchair greeted him, set in the middle of the barren space. It was little more than a cleft in the rock of the Thangorodrim, and otherwise unremarkable, except that within the space could be produced the most interesting of sonic mirages: truly masterful works of echoes and vocal manipulations. But most of all, it provided a space of well-earned comfort, Melkor reflected as he seated himself in the armchair, and a place to think aloud without fear of observation, or his lieutenant’s uncannily sharp ears.

Settling himself, Melkor called aloud, “Hello!” He listened as his deep voice reverberated around the space, before a moment later its echo coalesced, merrily calling back to him: “ _Hello!”_  

“How are you?” he asked grandly, its twin replying to him with no less splendour: “ _How are you?”_

“I asked you first,” Melkor said sweetly, but a hint of wry irritation curled in his voice. His echo seemed to hesitate for a second, before replying tauntingly: “ _I asked you first!”_

A reticent mood came over him for an instant, and he wrinkled his nose in distaste, suddenly unsure of whether it was a good idea to come to this place this evening. But an instant later pride moved him, albeit of a churlish sort, and sulkily he replied: “Oh, that’s _really_ mature, saying exactly what I say!”

“ _Oh, that’s really mature, saying_ exactly _what_ I _say!”_ came the insolent reply, and Melkor blinked. He was almost certain that the inflections of his words had changed slightly, that the stresses in his sentence had shifted. He listened intently as the final rills of sound faded from the cavern, before shrugging: most likely some uneven facet of the rocks had thrown back his voice slightly crooked. But still, something irked him about the smugness of the reply, and moodily he pushed himself back into his armchair, clutching the goblet of wine tightly.

“I’m an idiot!” he called petulantly, waiting with some childish sense of satisfaction for the reply he knew had to come.

“ _You’re an idiot!”_

The echo thrown back most certainly sounded different; more pointed, even, more vicious, but that could not be. Perhaps the day had been more trying than he thought, for certainly he must be imagining things. Still Melkor pouted, the insult curling with rancour inside of him, even if it had issued from his own lips.

“Alright, fine,” he hissed, his voice drawn into a taught whisper. He leant forward in the armchair, squinting balefully up at the far upper corner of the chamber, the point from which the echoes originated. “I’m not talking to you anymore! In fact, I’m going to _whisper!_ So that by the time my voice reverberates off the walls and gets back to me, I won’t be able to hear it!”

He sneered triumphantly, revelling in the quiet that hung amid the chamber; the only noise the faint moan of the wind buffeting against the outside of the mountain, and oddly, distressingly, something that sounded almost like muffled laughter. He strained his ears through the quiet, hoping to pinpoint the sound when suddenly came:

“ _You’re an idiot!”_

At that taunting echo he recoiled violently, staring up at the ceiling with a thunderous expression. Indignation, and no small part of confusion swirled within him, and at last he snatched up his goblet once more and strode from the room, determined to leave it and all its silliness behind him. But with every step he took, he could not escape the fleeting echoes of laughter that seemed to flicker in his ears.

The retreating impact of Melkor’s steps thudded through the thin stone, running through its myriad cracks and crevices until it reached at last a band of metal embedded into the mountainside, each vibration shuddering dully through it. And caught in that cruel band, amid his pain Maedhros smiled. Truly, he thought, the refraction of sound about stone was remarkable, allowing for all sorts of manipulations, and all sorts of mischief. The Valar could not help him, it seemed, or would not, but perhaps some vestige of Aulë’s fondness for him had allowed him this one grim pleasure amid his torment.

And wield it he most certainly would.

 


	7. Feuds and Dictionaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Rúmil invents the first Elvish lettering system, the Sarati, and following such an invention it is likely that the first dictionary was compiled. It is unlikely however, that all of the Noldor were quite so impressed by such linguistic prowess.

The scholar approached the throne demurely, his long silvery hair braided in an intricate knot behind his head, a thick stack of parchment bound in crimson thread clasped in his hands. Atop the dais sat the king, grave and wise upon his throne, and at his right hand the prince. Still in his youth he was, but ambitious he was also; and haughtily he peered at Rúmil as he drew near.   

Halting at the base of the dais, Rúmil bowed formally, intoning: “High King Finwë, Prince Fëanáro; I thank you both for your invitation here.”

Finwë gestured for him to stand at ease, a welcoming smile upon his face. But beside him Fëanáro sneered, a cold light glittering in his eyes as he looked contemptuously down at the scholar. 

“I understand that you have something to present to us,” said Finwë, seemingly unaware of his son’s fell countenance.

“Indeed, my king,” Rúmil replied eagerly, gripping the parchment in his hands a little more tightly. “For last night I celebrated the encyclopaedic implementation of my pre-meditated orchestration of demotic Quenya.”

At that statement Finwë blinked, and an unflattering sneer curled over the prince’s lips. At length Finwë laughed, grinning uncertainly down at the scholar.

“I’m afraid that I did not quite catch that, Rúmil. Perchance might you repeat yourself?”

“Well, my king, I simply observed that I am felicitous, since during the course of the penultimate arboreal sojourn, I terminated my uninterrupted categorization of vocabulary in our Oromëan tongue." 

A pause rippled through the throne room: the king foundered and if anything, the prince’s smirk deepened. Indeed, the silence became distinctly uncomfortable, until at last Fëanáro interjected: 

“I believe, Father, that what Rúmil is attempting to express is his success in finishing his book, which has apparently taken him many a year.” 

“Ah, yes,” the king smiled, with not an inconsiderable amount of relief.

Rúmil glanced up at Fëanáro, and stoically ignoring the hostile look on his face continued. “Here it is, my king: the very cornerstone of Ñoldorian scholarship. This book contains every word in our beloved language.”

“Every word?” Finwë enquired, looking at the bundle of parchment incredulously. 

“Every single word, my king,” Rúmil replied confidently.     

Finwë sat back into his throne contemplatively, absently stroking his chin with his thumb. Yet beside him, Fëanáro leaned forward, a sharp glint in his eyes. 

“Well, Father,” he began, a sly curl to his voice, “I hope that you will not object if I offer this _worthy_ scholar my most enthusiastic contrafibularities.” 

“What?” Rúmil’s brows knotted in confusion.

“ ‘Contrafibularities’, my good sir,” the prince smiled. “It is a common word about our courts.”

“Oh…” Worriedly, Rúmil shuffled through his papers.

Fëanáro looked down at him, an expression of angelic innocence carefully poised over his features.

“Oh, my dear sir, I must apologize. I am anispeptic, phrasmotic, even _compunctuous_ as to have caused you such pericombobulation.” 

“Fëanáro, what are you talking about?” Finwë snapped, disliking the tone in his son’s voice, and the tremulous expression that was breaking over Rúmil’s face. 

“I’m sorry, Father,” he countered smoothly. “I merely wished to congratulate Rúmil on not having left out a single word. That now settled, might I have your permission to depart? I have my own projects to see to.” 

“Yes, yes.” Finwë waved at him irritably. “And tell the guards to admit Olwë’s messenger in a half-hour, if indeed he is still waiting for an audience.” 

“Of course, Father.” Gracefully Fëanáro descended the short steps of the dais, but abruptly halted before the rather flustered scholar. A smirk curled over his lips, and sharply he turned on his heel, facing back towards the throne. “I shall return…interfrastically.” 

With that the prince strode from the hall, a conceited smugness glowing within him as he heard the scholar splutter, followed by what sounded an awful lot like a bundle of parchment dropping to the floor.  


	8. The Nameless Things

_**"Far, far below the deepest delving of the Dwarves, the world is gnawed by nameless things. Even Sauron knows them not. They are older than he."**  - The Two Towers, The Lord of the Rings._

_Imagine, if you will, a conclave of puissant creatures in the bowels of the earth, to whom knowledge of the War of Wrath provides a slight pique in interest in worldly affairs. _To be read in as many voices as you choose._    _

                                             

* * *

 

 

A shift in the balance.

The stones scream their anguish. Their sorrows taste of metal.

The soil cries out in its pain. Fey it hath become.

They torture this earth with their wars.

We should not let them.

Why do we care?

 _Do_  we care?

It is not our fight. They cannot reach us. They do not remember us.

We care. It is  _our_  earth they rend.  _Our_  home they cleave in their despite.  

Us, they have forsaken.

The Darkling doth remember.

The Darkling has fallen.

Do we intervene?

We are eternal. We care not for the Bright Ones and their ambitions.

We are hungry. We eat, we writhe, we labour. Kindred mine, we are forgotten.

Do we intervene?

We could. Or we could not.

The balance has shifted.

In their arrogance, they have forgotten us.

We would be exalted. We would be legion, amassed, colossal. Tyrants, alike even to Him in the Beginning.

The Darkling might raise us up, if our aid we doth bequeath him.

We are hungry. We gnaw the rocks. We need not power.

He has not the power to give.

We are enamoured of the dark. The heat. The slime. We devour. We consume. We need not permission to do so.

We do not need the light. The air is empty. It does not fill the belly.

The Darkling asks not for our aid. He hath forgotten us.

Then we do nothing?

We are eternal. What mean they to us?

This earth is yet mortal.

We do nothing.

We do not intervene.

We are hungry. We do not care for power.

They have not the power we seek.

Forget then?

Forget. We are the forgotten.

We feast. Chew rock, gnaw the roots of the mountains ‘til they doth buckle in their ruin. Slake thy hunger in silt.

Feast. Gorge. Sup upon the molten blood of this earth and endure.

We are hungry. We are eternal.   

We are hungry. We do not partake in the earth’s misery.

We eat, and we are strong.  


	9. Presents

_A quick little ficlet with Maedhros, and a very young Elrond and Elros, written for xredriverx's birthday <3 _

* * *

 

 

Sunlight dappled down through the verdant trees of the courtyard, yet a pall of shade clouded over Maedhros’ heart as he trailed his two young wards towards the stable block.

Through the courtyard they ran, they laughed and chattered as Elros pointed out a large snail atop a leaf fallen amid the grasses, yet to Maedhros their merriment seemed such a fragile façade. Maglor it was who should have been accompanying them, but called away upon urgent business to the North he was, and tentatively Maedhros stepped up to the more fatherly duties of his guardianship.

Happily the twins went before him, yet into his stomach Maedhros curled his crippled right arm within its leather sling, and a faint wince passed over his face.

They looked so much like the other two, he thought, the ones in the forest that he couldn’t find, that he couldn’t save. The ones who saw him only as a monster.

Before the outer doors of the stables left thrown open to the warm afternoon the twins paused, and they looked to Maedhros for permission as they hovered by the door.

“Go on,” he urged gently, and hand in hand the twins entered. Nervously they looked to the great horses that peered loftily down at them from their stalls; in wonder they stared at the sleek palfreys, the bold chargers that whinnied as Maedhros stepped after them.

“Look, Elrond!” Elros called, he pulled his brother before a great bay stallion, who regarded them calmly from over the door of its stall. “Look! This one’s got a funny shape on its head!”

With wide eyes Elrond stared up at it, at the whorl of white fur that marked its deep mahogany coat, and with a slight smile plucking at his lips Maedhros followed them.

“This is your Uncle Maglor’s horse,” he said, and with his left hand he stroked it gently upon the cheek as it snuffled into his chest. “And that type of marking, in the center of the forehead, you see, it’s called a star. He has been kissed by Elentári, so we say.”

“A star…” Elros echoed, but where Elros reached up to pat the horse upon its furry nose, Elrond shrank back.

“He’s so big…”

Did they shrink from him too, those two in the woods? The thought slid like a knife-blade through Maedhros’ guts, it skewered and it only began to twist. Upon both horse and foot he had hunted for them, a lantern in his hand amid the gloom of that accursed forest. Did he seem only a looming menace to them too, with flame in hand and their kin’s blood upon his sword?

Elros’ exclamation shook him from such morbid thoughts, for swiftly the elfling had moved from his side.

“Elrond!” the elfling squealed. “Elrond, look! Look there’s little ones here!” Upon the low bar of the furthest stall Elros leant, and eagerly he peered beyond it. “Are they for us, Uncle Maedhros, are they?”

Slowly Elrond moved to stand beside his brother, and as he ambled after them, a soft smile touched Maedhros’ scarred lips. For nestled within the deep straw of the stall were two stocky ponies, their coats shaggy and their manes long and frizzed. A peculiar Edain breed they were, hardy and forgiving; at their fullest height at the shoulder they stood only to Maedhros’ mid-thigh, and so Maglor had deemed them the perfect mounts for their two young wards.

“Are they ours, Uncle Maedhros?” Elros chirped, and his face lit up with delight as Maedhros nodded. “I want the white one! Please, Uncle Maedhros, please can I have him? And then Elrond, he can have the black one and we can be like opposites! Please, _pleeeeaaase_ , Uncle Maedhros?” 

“If it is all right with your brother,” Maedhros said smoothly, and timidly Elrond nodded. “Then,” Maedhros continued,” yours, Elros, the grey, he is called Rochallor. For the mightiest steed of our legends he is named, and it is a noble bearing for a princely pony.”

The rotund little pony in question whickered loudly, and continued chewing upon a clump of hay.  

“And what’s mine, Uncle Maedhros?” Elrond asked. “Does he have a grand name too?”

A rare, mischievous grin curved over Maedhros’ lips, and almost ruefully then he glanced down at Elrond. “He’s… he’s called Porky.”

“Oh…”

“But he is no lesser steed for a name!” Maedhros pronounced. “And we must allow your Uncle Maglor his humours, now mustn’t we? Would you like to feed him, Elrond? Here.”

From his pocket Maedhros extracted two small chunks of carrot, and gave one apiece to the twins, who clutched them in their fists as both ponies started towards them in anticipation of a treat. 

“Now,” Maedhros said, “make sure to hold the carrot flat upon your palm. That way your pony can grasp it cleanly with his teeth, and your fingers won’t get in the way!” 

Frowns of concentration crossed two little brows, but soon enough the ponies were licking the twins’ hands clean without mishap.

“It’s tickly!” Elros exclaimed, and hastily Elrond wiped free the drool from his hand upon his tunic. Once more he patted Porky upon his rather handsomely moustached nose, and quickly stepped back to Maedhros’ side as the pony snorted. To Maedhros’ left hand then he clutched, and timidly he said, “Are… are we going to ride them?” 

“Soon enough,” Maedhros replied, and encouragingly he squeezed Elrond’s fingers. “My brother has called for the farrier to check them for lameness, and to bring what tack from the farmstead that might fit them. Within the week then we might have you in the saddle.”

“I want to go galloping!” Elros declared, and as Elrond began gently pulling Maedhros from the stables, Elros mock-cantered alongside them.

But soon enough he settled, and to Maedhros’ right then he moved instinctively. To hold his guardian’s hand he reached up, but the blank space above him left his chubby fingers curling on air. A stricken look of dawning realisation suddenly broke over his face as he stared at the sling that held Maedhros’ right arm, he snatched back his hand as if the very air had scalded him, and worrisomely he looked up at Maedhros then, as if he had done something wrong. 

And in that awful moment guilt cramped through Maedhros’ stomach, and his hazel eyes filled with pain as he looked upon the forlorn elfling below him. He could not do what Maglor could for them; in little things, in intimate things, ever he was made clumsy. So long ago he had been broken, he had been stitched back together, yet in such hurtful ways now those wounds ever sought to split open anew. 

“I’m sorry, Elros…” he said, faintly, helplessly; his ruined shoulder flexed within its soft bandages lain hidden beneath its tunic, but quickly then the elfling brightened. 

“It’s okay, Uncle Maedhros,” he said, with wisdom and grace far beyond his short years he ran to Elrond’s free left side, and tightly then he gripped on to his brother’s hand. “We can all still walk together, look!”

Quickly Maedhros nodded, he stamped down hard upon the awful things that squirmed and clamoured and scratched in his stomach, and he forced himself to smile as Elros said: “But I want to be the leader!” 

Towards the pond at the rear of the courtyard Elros set off at a charge, with Elrond strung along behind him, his little fingers digging tightly into Maedhros’ own and dragging him along in the rear. Under the sun’s gentle radiance Maedhros allowed himself to be pulled, he let the light wash free the shadows that clutched for a moment at his heart, and contentedly enough then he followed wherever the twins might lead.

 


	10. The Escape

_A piece written for brightlady-lise on Tumblr, regarding the last king of Gondor and his escape from Minas Morgul, and the evils that befell him upon the road._

 

* * *

 

The orc lay dead at Eärnur’s feet, the cell door gaped open before him, and with the blind un-focus of a drunkard the man stared through the path to his salvation.

So long they had kept him there; the squalid dungeon dug into the cellars of the citadel he had come almost to think of as home. For how many years had he known it: each spiderlike crack amid the flagstones, the miniscule curls of rust that flaked upon the metal grille set into the barred door, the deathly silence of the fortress above, and the city beyond. Against that ghastly quiet the soft clink of his chains was as a lullaby to soothe nerves worn ragged by the stillness of it all.

It reminded him that he was still alive, that he was still _real_ , and whether that understanding brought him disgust or delight he could no longer tell. 

The city was filled with sorcery: the gentle moonlight which once filtered through Minas Ithil’s noble walls was grown corrupt, infected; Minas Morgul now it was, the Dead City, and a ghastly light seeped from its walls, withering and cruel. The taste of metal hung upon the air, curlicues of dark puissance crawled over the slate floors. They stole into the mind and there wove phantoms.

Whispers in forgotten, foul tongues had licked at Eärnur’s ears, swords had rung and drums pounded, and everywhere there was the grate of metal and the screams of men, and like some festering cancer of the mind the visions had eroded him. Alone he had come, years or months or days ago, he could not now recall, or perhaps he was flanked by a company of his men, but crowned in a circlet of silver wings and in kingly livery he had ridden forth to challenge the Dead City, to eradicate the vermin that bred in the hollows of his land. Sword in hand he would slay them; a warlord of even as the Noldorin kings of old he would seem in their eyes, terrible and beautiful; or perhaps he had come to make his peace with them. Perhaps he had come to worship them, to slaughter his men at their gates in offering, to kneel before the dread captain of the Black Hand and proclaim his loyalty; to Sauron, to the Red Eye, to the Lord of Middle-earth; he would forsake his failing kingdom and take the captain’s gauntleted fingers within his hand, and he would kiss his promises into those steel-clad knuckles.

Truths mingled with lies, they tangled and blurred and became inseparable; the vile corruption of the City bred only madness. He knew no longer why they had captured him, he knew only that they had. In lust, in revelry they had taken him; an obscene rose of hot, stinging blood they had carved out of his stomach, steel gauntlets had flexed and he had _screamed_ as bones shattered beneath them. An unearthly cry had pierced through his heart; a shriek clove such wild terror through his blood that upon his face he had grovelled, he had wept, he had begged for mercy but still they had hurt him, laughed at him, unravelled him.

A king, a prisoner, a soldier; in the dark abyss of the fretful night it was all stripped away, he was nothing but a victim, he was nothing but _meat_. And though at first he had struggled, he had bellowed and kicked and fought with every ounce of unassailable pride in his blood, slowly the sickness of the city had crept through his veins, and to it he succumbed.   

The manacles about his wrists had long since rusted; brittle chains tethered him to the wall of his cell, and gripped by delirium there he dwelt. Reason warped to madness; the stars wheeled overhead and from them dripped nothing but a foul emulsion of water and grime, a bowl of gruel slid towards his listless feet was as the death-knell of some roaring beast in his ears, and from it he cringed away. Delirium built upon delusion, the potency of the City’s magic brimmed in his veins, it peeled him away until there was nothing there but rot, and in its grip he drowned.

What madness possessed him to act that day he did not know; shivering fever raced through veins, sweat had beaded like crystals upon his brow as suddenly he had lunged towards the orc that had come to feed him, and in the manic strength of his furore the chains had broken about his feet. A blurred moment of torsion and his fingers had clenched about the orc’s neck, bruises mottled over his knuckles but still he gripped, minute by painful, scrabbling minute he throttled the life from that orc and left its carcass where it fell.

Pressure throbbed in his ears, his heartbeat came all snarled up in his throat, but set to the rhythm of that awful tattoo the burning impetus to move scored through his veins. He staggered forwards, clumsy in his haste; shattered links of chain sluiced from his wrists and fell like dying little stars amid the gloom, and their soft tinkle against the flagstones below was as a goading whip sliced across his back. He could not return; the thought speared through his mind; he could not return, not now, not after what he’d done, he could not let them find him, he could not let them take him, he could not, _he could not._ The rhythm of the words set speed to his limping feet; he wrenched himself free of the deserted dungeons and scrambled up the furthest staircase: he had to go home, he had to go home, he had to get _out_ …

The very walls of the citadel were oppressive. They seemed to clot the breath within his lungs until every gasp was an exertion almost beyond endurance. Shadows flickered and dissipated before him, with what seemed a tremendous effort of will at last he tore free of the subterranean levels of the fortress, its labyrinthine passages half-remembered from the murky days before, and he stole towards the outer gates. He cared for caution no longer, and as a drowning man clawing himself to the water’s surface he sprinted towards the gateway. None resided in the Dead City who might wish to leave it, save one; the gates were oft left ajar and only lightly guarded, and Eärnur sent a prayer of thanks spiralling into the glowering skies as he stumbled and crawled and scrabbled his way towards the aperture between their infernal doors. Studded into the outermost walls of the city, they wept a greenish pallor out into the evening gloom; the sheer _wrongness_ of them sent Eärnur’s mind reeling, all fractured angles and broken spires they appeared, yet the promise of freedom spurred him onwards now, and the numbing, squalling fear of what might follow should he turn back. 

The front of his orc-spun tunic tore asunder as the spikes upon the gate gnawed at him; red furrows sliced across the skin of his chest and stomach but he cared not, he threw himself between its jaws and scrambled out towards the bridge beyond. For above the black stream that wound about the city the bridge spanned, its cobbles slicked in a treacherous spray, yet as the blare of a deep-throated trumpet sounded from a high tower behind him, Eärnur ran without care. A bitter tang coated his tongue as he hurtled over the bridge, the stream rushed beneath him and though its fume prickled its malice upon his skin it didn’t matter; he was free, he was free, he was going home, to the rolling pastures of Gondor, to the White Tower, to those there whom he loved.

But even as he ran, even as adrenaline spiralled through him and bade him sprint, something lulled him into stillness. Upon the first stones of the orc road that wound down the narrow cleft of the vale he wavered, and at the last he paused. For as he ranged beyond the gargoyles set into the outermost pillars of the bridge, great fields of flowers bloomed upon the wayside, and as one stricken dumb he gaped at them. White, gruesome lilies blossomed, and rotted, and bloomed again in noisome meadows there, ashen against the cimmerian rock, and as he wandered closer, a strange torpor crept through Eärnur’s bones.

Twisted petals leered at him, their faces decayed and yet full of haunted life, and the very sight of them stole the strength from his muscles; he took one tentative step forward and the cloying scent of pollen grasped at his throat, and suddenly then he stumbled. Upon the cobbles his feet slid, towards those unearthly flowers then he lurched, and as he beheld them all the nearer, there flared within him a gluttonous mood. Every demented curl of petal and unhallowed leaf called to him, the eerie, hypnotic bob of their bone-white faces lulled him to quiescence, and though the impetus to flee still scratched and yowled at the very back of his mind, it was suddenly drowned out in the overwhelming desire to stay.

How beautiful it would be to rest, he thought; he staggered into those gentle, grotesque meadows and he wished only to lie down among them, to let their peace wash over him, to let their dreams cozen him, to drift away and to heal, to sleep. A sickly haze clouded his mind, fatigue stole through his limbs and truly then he stumbled, phantasms and sprites of monstrous, exquisite forms danced before his eyes as his knees buckled to the damp soil below, and no longer could he rise. Deeply then he breathed, they were so sweet, so pure, he thought, so innocent; pollen coated the insides of his lungs and softly then he could go no further.

Down among those deathly petals he laid himself at last, just to rest, for a little while, just to sleep, to recover; among gentle fields of shivering white he sank downwards, and their cloying sleep washed over him, and the last king of Gondor knew no more in the waking world.

 


End file.
